CHAPTER IV

The three men walked away, leaving Sofya in the cabin. Then from
a distance came the sound of the ax blows, the echo straying through
the foliage. In a half-dreamy condition of repose, intoxicated with
the spicy odor of the forest, Sofya sat just outside the door,
humming a song, and watching the approach of evening, which gradually
enfolded the forest. Her gray eyes smiled softly at some one. The
reddening rays of the sun fell more and more aslant. The busy
chirping of the birds died away. The forest darkened, and seemed
to grow denser. The trees moved in more closely about the choked-up
glade, and gave it a more friendly embrace, covering it with shadows.
Cows were lowing in the distance. The tar men came, all four together,
content that the work was ended.

Awakened by their voices the mother walked out from the cabin,
yawning and smiling. Rybin was calmer and less gloomy. The surplus
of his excitement was drowned in exhaustion.

"Ignaty," he said, "let's have our tea. We do housekeeping here by
turns. To-day Ignaty provides us with food and drink."

"To-day I'd be glad to yield my turn," remarked Ignaty, gathering up
pieces of wood and branches for an open-air fire.

"We're all interested in our guests," said Yefim, sitting down by
Sofya's side.

"I'll help you," said Yakob softly.

He brought out a big loaf of bread baked in hot ashes, and began
to cut it and place the pieces on the table.

"Listen!" exclaimed Yefim. "Do you hear that cough?"

Rybin listened, and nodded.

"Yes, he's coming," he said to Sofya. "The witness is coming. I
would lead him through cities, put him in public squares, for the
people to hear him. He always says the same thing. But everybody
ought to hear it."

The shadows grew closer, the twilight thickened, and the voices
sounded softer. Sofya and the mother watched the actions of the
peasants. They all moved slowly and heavily with a strange sort
of cautiousness. They, too, constantly followed the women with
their eyes, listening attentively to their conversation.

A tall, stooping man came out of the woods into the glade, and
walked slowly, firmly supporting himself on a cane. His heavy,
raucous breathing was audible.

"There is Savely!" exclaimed Yakob.

"Here I am," said the man hoarsely. He stopped, and began to cough.

A shabby coat hung over him down to his very heels. From under his
round, crumpled hat straggled thin, limp tufts of dry, straight,
yellowish hair. His light, sparse beard grew unevenly upon his
yellow, bony face; his mouth stood half-open; his eyes were sunk
deep beneath his forehead, and glittered feverishly in their dark
hollows.

When Rybin introduced him to Sofya he said to her:

"I heard you brought books for the people."

"I did."

"Thank you in the name of the people. They themselves cannot yet
understand the book of truth. They cannot yet thank; so I, who
have learned to understand it, render you thanks in their behalf."
He breathed quickly, with short, eager breaths, strangely drawing in
the air through his dry lips. His voice broke. The bony fingers of
his feeble hands crept along his breast trying to button his coat.

"It's bad for you to be in the woods so late; it's damp and close
here," remarked Sofya.

"Nothing is good for me any more," he answered, out of breath.
"Only death!"

It was painful to listen to him. His entire figure inspired a
futile pity that recognized its own powerlessness, and gave way
to a sullen feeling of discomfort.

The wood pile blazed up; everything round about trembled and shook;
the scorched shadows flung themselves into the woods in fright. The
round face of Ignaty with its inflated cheeks shone over the fire.
The flames died down, and the air began to smell of smoke. Again
the trees seemed to draw close and unite with the mist on the glade,
listening in strained attention to the hoarse words of the sick man.

"But as a witness of the crime, I can still bring good to the people.
Look at me! I'm twenty-eight years old; but I'm dying. About ten
years ago I could lift five hundred pounds on my shoulders without an
effort. With such strength I thought I could go on for seventy years
without dropping into the grave, and I've lived for only ten years,
and can't go on any more. The masters have robbed me; they've torn
forty years of my life from me; they've stolen forty years from me."

"There, that's his song," said Rybin dully.

The fire blazed up again, but now it was stronger and more vivid.
Again the shadows leaped into the woods, and again darted back to
the fire, quivering about it in a mute, astonished dance. The wood
crackled, and the leaves of the trees rustled softly. Alarmed by
the waves of the heated atmosphere, the merry, vivacious tongues of
fire, yellow and red, in sportive embrace, soared aloft, sowing
sparks. The burning leaves flew, and the stars in the sky smiled to
the sparks, luring them up to themselves.

"That's not MY song. Thousands of people sing it. But they sing
it to themselves, not realizing what a salutary lesson their
unfortunate lives hold for all. How many men, tormented to death by
work, miserable cripples, maimed, die silently from hunger! It is
necessary to shout it aloud, brothers, it is necessary to shout it
aloud!" He fell into a fit of coughing, bending and all a-shiver.

"You yourself said a man mustn't boast of his misfortune," observed
Yefim with a frown.

"That's a different thing. Savely's misfortune is a general affair,
not merely his own. It's very different," said Rybin solemnly. "Here
you have a man who has gone down to the depths and been suffocated.
Now he shouts to the world, 'Look out, don't go there!'"

Yakob put a pail of cider on the table, dropped a bundle of green
branches, and said to the sick man:

"Come, Savely, I've brought you some milk."

Savely shook his head in declination, but Yakob took him under the
arm, lifted him, and made him walk to the table.

"Listen," said Sofya softly to Rybin. She was troubled and reproached
him. "Why did you invite him here? He may die any minute."

"He may," retorted Rybin. "Let him die among people. That's easier
than to die alone. In the meantime let him speak. He lost his life
for trifles. Let him suffer a little longer for the sake of the
people. It's all right!"

"You seem to take particular delight in it," exclaimed Sofya.

"It's the masters who take pleasure in Christ as he groans on the
cross. But what we want is to learn from a man, and make you learn
something, too."

At the table the sick man began to speak again:

"They destroy lives with work. What for? They rob men of their
lives. What for, I ask? My master--I lost my life in the textile
mill of Nefidov--my master presented one prima donna with a golden
wash basin. Every one of her toilet articles was gold. That basin
holds my life-blood, my very life. That's for what my life went! A
man killed me with work in order to comfort his mistress with my
blood. He bought her a gold wash basin with my blood."

"Man is created in the image of God," said Yefim, smiling. "And
that's the use to which they put the image. Fine!"

"Well, then don't be silent!" exclaimed Rybin, striking his palm on
the table.

"Don't suffer it," added Yakob softly.

Ignaty laughed. The mother observed that all three spoke little,
but listened with the insatiable attention of hungry souls, and
every time that Rybin spoke they looked into his face with watchful
eyes. Savely's talk produced a strange, sharp smile on their faces.
No feeling of pity for the sick man was to be detected in their manner.

Bending toward Sofya the mother whispered:

"Is it possible that what he says is true?"

Sofya answered aloud:

"Yes, it's true. The newspapers tell about such gifts. It happened
in Moscow."

"And the man wasn't executed for it?" asked Rybin dully. "But he
should have been executed, he should have been led out before the
people and torn to pieces. His vile, dirty flesh should have been
thrown to the dogs. The people will perform great executions when
once they arise. They'll shed much blood to wash away their wrongs.
This blood is theirs; it has been drained from their veins; they
are its masters."

"It's cold," said the sick man. Yakob helped him to rise, and led
him to the fire.

The wood pile burned evenly and glaringly, and the faceless shadows
quivered around it. Savely sat down on a stump, and stretched his
dry, transparent hands toward the fire, coughing. Rybin nodded his
head to one side, and said to Sofya in an undertone:

"That's sharper than books. That ought to be known. When they tear
a workingman's hand in a machine or kill him, you can understand--
the workingman himself is at fault. But in a case like this, when
they suck a man's blood out of him and throw him away like a carcass
--that can't be explained in any way. I can comprehend every
murder; but torturing for mere sport I can't comprehend. And why do
they torture the people? To what purpose do they torture us all?
For fun, for mere amusement, so that they can live pleasantly on the
earth; so that they can buy everything with the blood of the people, a
prima donna, horses, silver knives, golden dishes, expensive toys for
their children. YOU work, work, work, work more and more, and I'LL
hoard money by your labor and give my mistress a golden wash basin."

The mother listened, looked, and once again, before her in the
darkness, stretched the bright streak of the road that Pavel was
going, and all those with whom he walked.

When they had concluded their supper, they sat around the fire,
which consumed the wood quickly. Behind them hung the darkness,
embracing forest and sky. The sick man with wide-open eyes looked
into the fire, coughed incessantly, and shivered all over. The
remnants of his life seemed to be tearing themselves from his bosom
impatiently, hastening to forsake the dry body, drained by sickness.

"Why?" he answered with an effort. "I'll sit here. I haven't much
time left to stay with people, very little time." He paused, let
his eyes rove about the entire group, then with a pale smile,
continued: "I feel good when I'm with you. I look at you, and
think, 'Maybe you will avenge the wrongs of all who were robbed,
of all the people destroyed because of greed.'"

No one replied, and he soon fell into a doze, his head limply hanging
over his chest. Rybin looked at him, and said in a dull voice:

"He comes to us, sits here, and always speaks of the same thing, of
this mockery of man. This is his entire soul; he feels nothing else."

"What more do you want?" said the mother thoughtfully. "If people
are killed by the thousands day after day working so that their
masters may throw money away for sport, what else do you want?"

"It's endlessly wearying to listen to him," said Ignaty in a low
voice. "When you hear this sort of thing once, you never forget it,
and he keeps harping on it all the time."

"But everything is crowded into this one thing. It's his entire
life, remember," remarked Rybin sullenly.

The sick man turned, opened his eyes, and lay down on the ground.
Yakob rose noiselessly, walked into the cabin, brought out two
short overcoats, and wrapped them about his cousin. Then he sat
down beside Sofya.

The merry, ruddy face of the fire smiled irritatingly as it
illumined the dark figures about it; and the voices blended
mournfully with the soft rustle and crackle of the flames.

Sofya began to tell about the universal struggle of the people for the
right to life, about the conflicts of the German peasants in the olden
times, about the misfortunes of the Irish, about the great exploits
of the workingmen of France in their frequent battling for freedom.

In the forest clothed in the velvet of night, in the little glade
bounded by the dumb trees, before the sportive face of the fire, the
events that shook the world rose to life again; one nation of the
earth after the other passed in review, drained of its blood,
exhausted by combats; the names of the great soldiers for freedom
and truth were recalled.

The somewhat dull voice of the woman seemed to echo softly from the
remoteness of the past. It aroused hope, it carried conviction; and
the company listened in silence to its music, to the great story of
their brethren in spirit. They looked into her face, lean and pale,
and smiled in response to the smile of her gray eyes. Before them
the cause of all the people of the world, the endless war for
freedom and equality, became more vivid and assumed a greater
holiness. They saw their desires and thoughts in the distance,
overhung with the dark, bloody curtain of the past, amid strangers
unknown to them; and inwardly, both in mind and heart, they became
united with the world, seeing in it friends even in olden times,
friends who had unanimously resolved to obtain right upon the earth,
and had consecrated their resolve with measureless suffering, and
shed rivers of their own blood. With this blood, mankind dedicated
itself to a new life, bright and cheerful. A feeling arose and grew
of the spiritual nearness of each unto each. A new heart was born
on the earth, full of hot striving to embrace all and to unite all
in itself.

"A day is coming when the workingmen of all countries will raise
their heads, and firmly declare, 'Enough! We want no more of this
life.'" Sofya's low but powerful voice rang with assurance. "And
then the fantastic power of those who are mighty by their greed will
crumble; the earth will vanish from under their feet, and their
support will be gone."

"That's how it will be," said Rybin, bending his head. "Don't pity
yourselves, and you will conquer everything."

The men listened in silence, motionless, endeavoring in no way to
break the even flow of the narrative, fearing to cut the bright
thread that bound them to the world. Only occasionally some one
would carefully put a piece of wood in the fire, and when a stream
of sparks and smoke rose from the pile he would drive them away from
the woman with a wave of his hand.

Once Yakob rose and said:

"Wait a moment, please." He ran into the shack and brought out
wraps. With Ignaty's help he folded them about the shoulders and
feet of the women.

And again Sofya spoke, picturing the day of victory, inspiring
people with faith in their power, arousing in them a consciousness
of their oneness with all who give away their lives to barren toil
for the amusement of the satiated.

At break of dawn, exhausted, she grew silent, and smiling she looked
around at the thoughtful, illumined faces.

"It's time for us to go," said the mother.

"Yes, it's time," said Sofya wearily.

Some one breathed a noisy sigh.

"I am sorry you're going," said Rybin in an unusually mild tone.
"You speak well. This great cause will unite people. When you know
that millions want the same as you do, your heart becomes better,
and in goodness there is great power."

"You offer goodness, and get the stake in return," said Yefim with
a low laugh, and quickly jumped to his feet. "But they ought to go,
Uncle Mikhail, before anybody sees them. We'll distribute the books
among the people; the authorities will begin to wonder where they came
from; then some one will remember having seen the pilgrims here."

"Well, thank you, mother, for your trouble," said Rybin, interrupting
Yefim. "I always think of Pavel when I look at you, and you've
gone the right way."

He stood before the mother, softened, with a broad, good-natured
smile on his face. The atmosphere was raw, but he wore only one
shirt, his collar was unbuttoned, and his breast was bared low. The
mother looked at his large figure, and smiling also, advised:

"You'd better put on something; it's cold."

"There's a fire inside of me."

The three young men standing at the burning pile conversed in a low
voice. At their feet the sick man lay as if dead, covered with the
short fur coats. The sky paled, the shadows dissolved, the leaves
shivered softly, awaiting the sun.

"Well, then, we must say good-by," said Rybin, pressing Sofya's
hand. "How are you to be found in the city?"

"You must look for me," said the mother.

The young men in a close group walked up to Sofya, and silently
pressed her hand with awkward kindness. In each of them was evident
grateful and friendly satisfaction, though they attempted to conceal
the feeling which apparently embarrassed them by its novelty.
Smiling with eyes dry with the sleepless night, they looked in
silence into Sofya's eyes, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Won't you drink some milk before you go?" asked Yakob.

"Is there any?" queried Yefim.

"There's a little."

Ignaty, stroking his hair in confusion, announced:

"No, there isn't; I spilled it."

All three laughed. They spoke about milk, but the mother and Sofya
felt that they were thinking of something else, and without words
were wishing them well. This touched Sofya, and produced in her,
too, embarrassment and modest reserve, which prevented her from
saying anything more than a quiet and warm "Thank you, comrades."

They exchanged glances, as if the word "comrade" had given them a
mild shock. The dull cough of the sick man was heard. The embers
of the burning woodpile died out.

"Good-by," the peasants said in subdued tones; and the sad word rang
in the women's ears a long time.

They walked without haste, in the twilight of the dawn, along the
wood path. The mother striding behind Sofya said:

"All this is good, just as in a dream--so good! People want to know
the truth, my dear; yes, they want to know the truth. It's like
being in a church on the morning of a great holiday, when the priest
has not yet arrived, and it's dark and quiet; then it's raw, and the
people are already gathering. Here the candles are lighted before
the images, and there the lamps are lighted; and little by little,
they drive away the darkness, illumining the House of God."

"True," answered Sofya. "Only here the House of God is the whole earth."

"The whole earth," the mother repeated, shaking her head thoughtfully.
"It's so good that it's hard to believe."

They walked and talked about Rybin, about the sick man, about the
young peasants who were so attentively silent, and who so awkwardly
but eloquently expressed a feeling of grateful friendship by little
attentions to the women. They came out into the open field; the sun
rose to meet them. As yet invisible, he spread out over the sky a
transparent fan of rosy rays, and the dewdrops in the grass
glittered with the many-colored gems of brave spring joy. The birds
awoke fresh from their slumber, vivifying the morning with their
merry, impetuous voices. The crows flew about croaking, and
flapping their wings heavily. The black rooks jumped about in the
winter wheat, conversing in abrupt accents. Somewhere the orioles
whistled mournfully, a note of alarm in their song. The larks sang,
soaring up to meet the sun. The distance opened up, the nocturnal
shadows lifting from the hills.

"Sometimes a man will speak and speak to you, and you won't
understand him until he succeeds in telling you some simple word;
and this one word will suddenly lighten up everything," the mother
said thoughtfully. "There's that sick man, for instance; I've heard
and known myself how the workingmen in the factories and everywhere
are squeezed; but you get used to it from childhood on, and it
doesn't touch your heart much. But he suddenly tells you such an
outrageous, vile thing! O Lord! Can it be that people give their
whole lives away to work in order that the masters may permit
themselves pleasure? That's without justification."

The thoughts of the mother were arrested by this fact. Its dull,
impudent gleam threw light upon a series of similar facts, at one
time known to her, but now forgotten.

"It's evident that they are satiated with everything. I know one
country officer who compelled the peasants to salute his horse when
it was led through the village; and he arrested everyone who failed
to salute it. Now, what need had he of that? It's impossible to
understand." After a pause she sighed: "The poor people are stupid
from poverty, and the rich from greed."